Poetry
by Bohemian Storm
Summary: William left behind not only a doting mother, but a friend who loved him more than she knew.


**Disclaimer: **Not owned by me.  The lyrics are stolen from a Trisha Yearwood song.

**Warnings/Notes:** Ehhh, a little bit of creepiness. Also, I don't think they actually had funeral parlors in this sense back when William died, but I don't care either. Sue me for my inaccuracy, but I had this idea and I liked it. The one line of William's poetry is also a line from the episode 'Fool for Love'. I think Dru says something similar to him and I just borrowed it.  
  
**Poetry**

_By Bohemian Storm_  
  
_She loves the ones with the wounded pride  
The ones who carry all that hurt inside_  
  
"Ella!" her father called and her head snapped upward. She was perched on a wooden stool near the only window in the basement of her father's funeral parlor, reading a yellowed piece of parchment under the sunlight that streamed through the dusty window pane.  
  
"Yes, father?" she called back, folding the parchment and tucking it into the bodice of her dress.   
  
He appeared in the doorway, his face ashen. His hands were bloody. Ella stared at him calmly. She was used to the blood and the utter disgust that appears on her father's face whenever they received a body of someone they had known. She had never understood why he became so distraught when a familiar face appeared on the dark table. They lived in a very small town and knew mostly everyone in the houses that surrounded them.  
  
"Ella," he said. "Oh, Lord in Heaven . . . Ella."  
  
"What, father?"  
  
His dark eyes met hers and he came across the room to cradle her head against his chest. She could feel the sticky blood on his hands being stroked into her hair and she thought for a moment of shaking him loose, but then he spoke.  
  
"Ella, it's William."  
  
Her hand fluttered to the place where the parchment was rubbing against her skin. She cocked her head slightly, dark hair coming untucked from behind her ear.  
  
"William?" she asked in a whisper.  
  
Her father nodded. "No one knows what happened, really. He's just . . . he's dead, Ella."  
  
Her world came crashing in and all Ella knew a moment later was the dark.  
  
_She will stay with them 'till all hope is gone_  
  
  
She stood above his body hours later, staring at him as she had done before at the endless parties they'd encountered one another. They'd never really spoken at first, a few words here and there and some whispered praise to him about his poetry. He hadn't believed her at first. No one had believed that Ella had actually _enjoyed_ William's horrid poetry, but she insisted that she did and eventually everyone started to believe it. Even her.  
  
When he had given her the scrap of paper with his flowing words their fingers had touched briefly. He had flushed and so had she, but she had thanked him graciously for the poem, telling him that he hadn't had to go to such lengths for her pleasure. He had smiled at her and ducked out of the room, trailing his darling Cecily as she hurried for the exit.  
  
Ella was stung for a moment, but she smoothed out the paper and began to read and suddenly there was nothing for her to be angry about. The heading on the paper read, 'Dearest, Ella. I have written this for your kindness and friendship. I would have you know that this is the first and probably only poem that will not be written about my feelings for Cecily.'  
  
She had smiled and read the poem. It hadn't been good, of course, but it hadn't been utterly horrible either. It had been written for her and she supposed that that fact was the only thing that really mattered. She had also fallen in love with one of the lines. One of the lines that had been written for her.   
  
"Let no catastrophe come crashing down from heaven and bring you to tears," she whispered then, stroking William's forehead gently and pushing back the hair on his face.   
  
She hadn't meant to fall in love with him, of course. They had started out as friends and that was what she assumed they would always be. Ella had even tried to help him win over Cecily, but nothing ever seemed to work. It seemed as though William and Ella were both destined to spend their lives apart from the one they loved.  
  
She hadn't even realized that she had loved him until he had come to call on her, returning the parasol she had left at a party the night before. He had come in for some tea, as it was polite and a usual custom in their neighborhood. William had chatted amicably with Ella's father, and then turned his words on her. She had always believed he had more of a talent for the spoken word than the written.   
  
When he had left he had kissed her hand and bowed with a ridiculous flourish, only to grin at her a second laughter. Ella giggled and waved goodbye to him as he walked down the street in the direction of his own home.  
  
"So," her father said, watching his departing form. "This is the charming young man who has stolen your heart."  
  
Ella had blushed furiously and denied it, but there was really no point. Her father had seen what she had known all along. She was in love with William.  
  
"I love you," she murmured, staring at his still form. Her responsibility in the parlor was to prepare the bodies for the funerals and she was studying him now under the pretense of preparing him for his grave.   
  
He looked so much like the William she had known and yet there was something very different about him. She looked at the neck wound he had suffered, silently noting that the most work would need to be done there. She hated thinking of him in such a way. Ella had had all these brilliant plans to win him over, to make him see that she loved him and that she was far better for him than Cecily ever was, but now she'd have no chance. William was dead.  
  
Ella leaned down onto the table, tucking her head under his chin. He was so cold, but she pulled her shawl closer and wrapped her arms around him. If she closed her eyes and tried hard enough she could almost imagine that his heart was beating again. She could almost feel the rise and fall of his cold chest. His shirt was open at the collar and she could feel the fine hair against the side of her face. She just wanted to lay there forever, wrapped in his arms and his scent. Ella closed her eyes, feeling the tears escape from under her lids. She just wanted to forget that he was dead.  
  
She finally rose from her position and removed the poem from her dress. Ella wondered if she should keep it or tuck it into the suit she would have to dress William in. Would she rather have it for the rest of her life or know that it rested with him? She clutched it tightly in her fingers as she bent to him, her lips brushing against his softly. Another sob went through her and she drew in a deep breath before kissing him again. Her fingers went to his hair, reaching behind the back of his head and pulling him toward her. She thought of what her father might say if he were to see this, but she no longer cared. She missed William already, missed him more than she could possibly say.  
  
And then suddenly he was kissing her back and Ella was convinced that she was imagining things. His hand came to her cheek, cradling her face and brushing away the tears that were falling. He sat up on the table, his arms coming around her, crushing her to him. She felt his own tears, hot against his cold face and wondered what was going on. What could have possibly happened to make her father think that William was dead when he really wasn't?  
  
"William?" she whispered.  
  
"Ella," he murmured his face in her hair. One of his hands was on the small of her back, pulling her closer. The other was still on her face, turning her head to one side as he buried his face in her throat.  
  
"You're alive," she whispered.  
  
He kissed the hollow of her throat.  
  
"I love you, William."  
  
"I love you," he murmured, his mouth on her neck.  
  
"My father said you were dead."  
  
His teeth grazed her skin. "Goodbye, Ella."   
  
_Goodbye's the only thing she's counting on_  
  
  
Her father found her body on the table instead of William's, the poem still clutched in her hand and the tears still wet on her face.  
  
End


End file.
